


Pour My Life Into a Paper Cup

by annieke



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 07:06:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annieke/pseuds/annieke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny's having one of those days. Steve is just Steve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pour My Life Into a Paper Cup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stellarmeadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarmeadow/gifts).



> Title from the Red Hot Chili Peppers' song: Otherside.   
> Written for stellarmeadow for the h5o exchange.  
> Also, many thanks to iam_space for the much appreciated beta!

There's a moment of intense focus that takes over sometimes, when he's teetering on the brink of complete release and he can’t quite catch his breath, when everything turns into an all encompassing white noise that fills him up, senses attuned only to the hands that hold, tease, caress and squeeze—

Steve, Steve, Steve . . .

Echoing over and over in his head because he's just so close, so on the edge, almost over the edge, right there, right there, right there--and oh, yeah, it's perfect, it is--

Perfect, all perfect with Steve, who is heavy and warm above him, around him, behind him and inside him, and there are shuddering panting breaths against his neck, exhalations bathing his skin in sultry warmth. The swipe of a tongue, the nip of teeth, the groans, the moans, and shit, he's about to, about to--

Wake up. No.

No. Jesus Christ. A dream. He was asleep. Dreaming, so close and--

Oh. Good. God.

Not fucking again.

Danny pulls the pillow over his head, only to shove it away a second later and stare angrily into the dark.

Jesus, the noise that is filling his crappy little apartment. Even the background drone of the infomercials on his TV isn't drowning out the sound.

Nothing. Nothing is worse than this.

Not the pipes that sing every time someone takes a shower.

Not the deafening rap music until all hours.

Not the fact he didn't even get to finish, didn’t get to come and now doesn’t look like he will because--

This.

What the hell is he doing to him over there?

Why can't the guy’s boyfriend just come already and shut up?

Why does this have to happen at this time of night, when he has to be up in less than two hours?

How in the hell is that greasy, disgusting motherfucker next door having sex twice in one night when he hasn't had any--not even any in his dreams--in way too long?

What the ever-loving fuck?

**

First that. Now this.

Just not happening.

He's searching through everything in his kitchen which, admittedly, is about a thirty second sweep given the size of the place, knows he's teetering the edge of completely frantic because--

He's just so damn tired. So tired. Needs coffee. Craves.

There has to be some somewhere. Surely he hasn't run out. Maybe tucked back in there behind Grace's freezer-burned box of popsicles?

And okay, that would be a no.

Nothing. Nada.

"Okay, that's okay," he's murmuring, nodding to himself, glancing at his watch again but not really registering as he's lamenting the lack of coffee because he's so incredibly tired and never did fall back to sleep last night. This morning.

Whatever.

Asshole neighbor and his screaming boyfriend.

He ties his tie, registering just how slow motion he seems to be moving. His fingers feel like sausages, and fuck him for allowing Steve to take his car last night, which is now keeping him from running out to the store to get coffee this morning. Wonders if he hurries could he run upstairs to borrow a scoop before Steve shows up and--

And there it is already. The honking. He hopes like hell it wakes up his neighbor, the porn star, and his incredibly overly vocal boyfriend.

"You're freakin' early," he yells to Steve as he hurries out the door all the while shoving two large plastic bags into the backseat of his car.

Steve's looking at the bags, then him. "I'm not, and good morning to you, too. You look like hell."

"You are, and thank you so very much. No, really. Never mind I didn't get much of any sleep last night due to the ménage a freaky duo next door."

"Ménage a freak?"

Danny shakes his head; it's too early to have this conversation. "Trust me, you don't want to know--and yes, you are early."

Steve's thumbing toward the backseat. "Tell me you did not just throw trash in the car--and trust me when I tell you I'm not early."

"I did, and you are. Look," he says, showing his watch. "Oh, for--" because it's still saying the same time it did twenty minutes ago which was the same as twenty minutes before that, apparently, and so yeah. Steve could very well be on time as he now has no idea what time it really is.

Steve, who is looking at him with those chameleon eyes that today are just overflowing with the identical deep blue of his shirt which makes Danny want to take a running leap off the high board and dive right on in.

Why does the man always wear that color? It makes Danny want to do things--like wrap his hands around Steve’s jaw and watch those eyes widen as he shoves his tongue down--

Okay, enough. Jesus.

Clearly being subjected to a sex-a-thon all night has fucked with the normal process of brain function as it's pretty stinking clear that his dick is letting him know that it is the big kahuna in charge today. Screaming out reminders that he didn’t make it to the final finish line once his brain woke up to what was really going on around him.

If this kind of thinking goes on all day, well--

He is so fucked.

He has to get a grip because this is so not going to happen with Steve, anyway--ever--and he knows it, even if his brain tries to trick him with the dream Steve. And besides, he's sure Steve walks pretty much a straighter than straight line, not at all like the wavering line of his own inclinations, it weaving drunkenly from side to side for years up until the very point that he met Rachel--and even a little bit after if he would care to admit that out loud, which no, he would not.

Since the divorce that line has pretty much been etched solely onto the palm of his own hand, anyway, for all the sex he's not had or having. Witness the almost climax event of early this morning.

Seriously? The fact he's even dwelling on this right this second so shows that his dick is reprimanding him for not jerking off in the shower like it apparently wanted to after listening to the two men next door get their freak on all night long.

He seriously needs coffee. Coffee and sex and--

Lord, he’s taken to having rambling conversations inside his own head.

"Stupid watch is broken," he tells Steve now, waving away other thoughts while pointing to his watch again. Trying hard not to think about Steve or his tongue or how truly often he has awakened to thoughts of both playing his body, even on mornings that he hasn't been surrounded by freak-a-gogo all night.

He so needs to work on breaking up with his hand.

"Watch? You don’t wear a watch, Danny."

"I do wear a watch. When it's not broken--which is, apparently, never." He looks at it ruefully, shaking it although it isn't going to get any better. He's had the stupid thing supposedly fixed twice now--ought to give it up and just rely on his phone for checking the time like the rest of the world. "Hey. Drive me and my trash over to the dumpster behind the building."

"Please."

Danny smirks. "Yeah, right. My car."

"My gas."

"Seriously? You did not. You really filled the tank?"

"Yeah. And at almost $4.50 a gallon, at the very least I deserve a please, Danny. Possibly a thank you."

"Okay, okay. Steven, would you please drive me, my car, your gas, and my trash to the dumpster." He slides out when they get there, bags in hand and shaking his head. "And, hey, thank you. For the gas. That is . . . so very much not like you."

"What do you mean, not like me?"

"You know, babe," he replies, "actually paying for stuff." The first bag gets tossed up into the dumpster, the second one following, only somehow it snags on something and when he stretches his arms up to catch it, falls back to him and splits wide open. "Fuck!"

So yeah, handfuls of wet garbage, coffee grounds from days past and last night's unfinished chicken vindaloo (because it just didn't smell quite right) all rain down on his head.

Steve's waving him off, yelling out the window as he's already pulled the door shut and turned the car around. "Don't even think about it--I'll meet you back at your place. I can already smell you from here!"

Danny swipes at the ruin that is now his tie.

His shirt. Shoes.

He can smell himself now, too.

This day is going to hell and it's only--well, he doesn't even know what time it really is.

"Shit."

**

Rachel calls his cell when they're on their way to meet Chin and Kono, which means he'll be able to cut her short using the work excuse, and he silently offers up a thank you to whatever powers that be are watching for making that happen.

"Yeah," he drones, half listening while also watching the road as Steve just squeaks through the intersection on the slimmest fraction of yellow light. He gives him a smack to the upper arm, Steve turning to him and mouthing, "What?" as if there's no problem at all and doesn't everyone know that yellow means: 'for God's sake hurry up because the light is about to turn red'?

"Menace," he says with a stab of finger, still splitting focus between Rachel's voice and Steve's driving. He's not even sure which of the two he's finding the more horrifying--

And then Rachel lowers the boom and tells him that no, sorry, he can't have Grace tonight as planned as she was invited last night to a friend's for a sleepover this night--puppies, Daniel, their dog has had puppies--but he can pick her up sometime late afternoon tomorrow.

Which gives him no recourse as it's his daughter's fun he'd be ruining if he didn't let her go, so, "Okay, fine," even though he was so looking forward to seeing her.

Rachel almost sounds apologetic. "She's really looking forward to it, Danny, although she did feel a bit upset at not spending the time with you."

"Okay, well--"

“I told her it was fine, that you understood, and that you and Steve would have a big fuck tomorrow, anyway.”

He chokes, coughing, spluttering into the phone. "Rachel, I--what? What?"

"I said, 'You and she would have a big hug tomorrow, anyway.' Honestly, Daniel, are you all right? You sound like you just swallowed a fly."

"Sorry, uh--I'm fine and yeah. Fine. Just--give Gracie a hug from me. Tell her to have fun." He disconnects and--how had he heard her say that? How was that possible?

"Everything okay?" Steve asks. "She say something wrong? You look kinda--"

"Everything's peachy," he replies, and can't even think of looking over at the man. Doesn't want to look at him. "Just pull over so I can get a caffeine fix before what's left of my sanity implodes, will ya?"

A glance to Steve and--nope.

Not going there. Not.

**

The grimace on the barista's face makes him want to punch him. Guy looks like he's at least half way to conjuring up a look-alike expression right out of Steve's repertoire, and that is just pissing him off royally.

"Something the matter?" he snaps at him, eyeing him as he stirs his coffee.

"No, it's just--you're putting--" and the guy is nodding toward his paper cup, clearly somehow offended that Danny has the nerve to desecrate 100% Kona with copious amounts of sugar and cream--

Which, hello, is exactly what 'regular' coffee is when you order it back in New Jersey, and no, he in no way feels as if he's ruining his coffee at all, thanks for the unsolicited opinion there, you complete shithead.

Steve's waiting in the car, phone tucked into his ear and now sporting a pinched grimace Danny just knows is going to add to the marvel that is already this morning.

Out of habit, he glances at his watch. Oh, yeah. Still 7:18.

The car's clock tells him it's actually 9:27, they're more than late in meeting Chin and Kono at this morning's crime scene.

Steve keeps glancing his way, nose half wrinkling.

"What, Steve? What--you have a problem, too?

"What?"

"Nothing, just—okay, what? Why are you looking at me like I disarmed your last hand grenade?"

"You, uh, still smell like Indian food."

"Okay, you know what? You. You said to hurry, so I hurried. I washed, I changed my shirt--I’m not even going to discuss the state of my tie, do not even ask—but then you with the hurry ups; I didn't have time to take an entire shower. Hence, Indian."

"And bubblegum. Why do you smell like bubblegum?"

He's about to protest because what the hell, he does not smell like bubblegum--then it hits him, too. Grape, no less. He does smell like bubblegum.

"Ah, shit," he whines as he gets a look at the bottom of his right shoe.

Steve pulls over, parking the car behind two of HPD's cruisers. He's looking at him then, lips tight like he's trying not to laugh, the fucker, and is then reaching out.

Toward him, reaching toward his mouth.

Honest to God, for a split second he's thinking Steve's going to brush fingers over his lips and, okay, as crappy as this day has started out, is also thinking things may just be looking up, all shit-thus-far considered. Finds himself sitting so very still, wondering, waiting, anticipating--

Instead, though, Steve's fingers lightly push at his jaw, making his head turn slightly and then pointing. "I think a bird crapped on your hair, Danny."

Because this is his life now.

**

He can't even get out of the car now they're here, just sits for a few minutes fuming about the shit that's literally come down on him over what, a half hour's time--

Oh, wait--that's right. His watch is broken--again--so he's not even sure how long it's been since the shit has hit the fan. Hit his head.

Hit his hair, for shit's sake.

No sleep, no watch, no Grace, no coffee--visually berated by a kid half his age who wouldn't know what a decent cup of regular joe tasted like if his life depended on it, which it may very well have if Danny had lingered there one moment longer, goddamnit--

The smell of garbage still lingers in the car--or on him, it’s kind of hard to tell--and it's mixed with something, something that's--

Fucking pigeon-like.

He's going to shoot somebody, swear to god.

His door opens, Steve's voice rolling in after. "So, you think you might be looking to get out of the car at any point in the immediate to near future, Danny? Or should we just bring the whole crime scene out here to you?”

Danny pauses, then grins. Sort of. “Have I ever told you how funny I think you are?”

“Yeah, no. You’ve never said I was funny.”

"Because you are not. Not a funny guy, Steven, not even remotely," he snaps, pointing a finger at him because—goddamnit. It's his hair! He slams the door behind him, elbows past Steve to head inside.

He so did not just hear Steve mumble, "Someone needs to get laid."

**

"It's ugly," Chin tells them as they enter the bar. He nods toward the back of the room where Max and a few CSU investigators are crouched around a large, naked, and very bloody body sprawled on the floor.

"This is the owner. Apparently he was killed at some point after closing, which was sometime around 2:00 am. Registers were cleaned out and left open."

Steve has his get-down-to-business face on. "Anything else touched?"

"Yeah, got a safe in the back office." Kona chimes in as she joins them. “Blew it with a small blast grenade. Someone definitely knew what they were doing with one of those."

Danny raises an eyebrow at Steve's back because, come on--

"Stop looking at me. It's not like I did it," Steve says without turning.

"Did I say anything? I didn't say anything." He points at himself, then Kono. "Did you hear me say anything?"

Her nose wrinkles. "You smell like curry." She starts trailing them as they make their way to the back toward the body. "And gum. Grape gum, which just, ew--"

Danny snaps the black latex gloves onto his hands as he heads to the grisly scene. As soon as he can, he's gonna storm over to the 7-11 next door, see if the place will let him use the bathroom because if even one person mentions--

"Wait, is that bird poop in your hair?"

**

The bathroom at the convenience store next door is fairly clean, actually, which is as much a surprise as a relief; he's seen and made use of much worse.

He's washed up, gotten the crap out of his hair along with what looked like a few coffee grounds stuck to the gel coated strands and thank god no one decided to point that out. The bottom of his shoe is still a bit tacky, though, and every step feels like he's walking in a movie theater just after the latest kiddie show.

Now he stands at the urinal, relaxing his stance and happy to let go of this morning's coffee while skimming eyes over the graffiti on the wall because he had a venti and may be here for a while.

For a good time call . . . Akuna was here . . . I love Kai . . . Lani-Aki has big tits . . .

Then: Steve gives good head.

When he leaves he doesn't remember to wash his hands.

**

He returns to his team already circled around Max who is offering up his most valuable best guess in the oddly spaced cadence that is his voice.

"Without having completed a full autopsy, I can not be one hundred percent definitive on the actual cause of death, of course. However, given the number and perceived depth of stab wounds, it is certainly likely that one or more of these is, in fact, the fatal wound. Even the combination of them all is a consideration--you'll note the copious amount of blood trailing out from under the body."

"Uh, yeah, Max. Kinda hard to miss," Steve says, and they all glance toward the back of the bar again.

"Pretty violent, too," Kono says.

Chin is nodding. "You really have to want someone dead to inflict that much damage."

"Forty two is the total of my count, thus far," Max states. "Give or take, naturally, as I cannot quite discern whether or not some of the longer wounds are, in actuality, the result of two or more strokes. And all of this offered unofficially, of course. "

"That's a lotta hate," Danny adds, not that that's not obvious to any of them. "More than just a robbery here."

"Likely someone knew him," Chin says, nodding.

"Like a lover. Girlfriend, or—a male lover, I'll just bet." Kono's voice trails softly along and what the hell is she looking at him for?

Steve begins directing. "Chin, you and Kono go find out what you can about the guy's background. Where he lives, if he's married. Danny and I are going to meet with," he flips over some papers, "Jake Alanoa. He's the bartender who was working with him last night."

**

It takes all of three minutes to figure out the dead guy's life.

"So," Steve tells him in the car after hanging up the phone with Chin. "He was Thomas James Noleka. TJ. Thirty-four. Not married, lived alone. No record--Kono says his apartment is cheap and pretty empty--studio place with a pull-out sofabed, small table, chairs." Steve glances at him. "Y' know, kinda sounds like your--"

"Oh, yes, please do continue that thought, Steven, thank you. That's just what I want to hear. Some parallel that suggests you think I'm just like that guy."

"I didn't say that. Geeze, you're in a crappy mood."

"Okay, no. One, I am not in a mood at all. And yes, while I will admit that this morning has had a certain amount of crap attached to it—and it will behoove you to refrain from commenting here--two, in case you missed it the first time: I am not in a mood. I am fine. I'm in a fine mood. Just dandy. A fine, dandy mood."

"Behoove? Who the hell says--okay, you know? Forget it. Never mind. Sorry I brought it up.”

Danny nods, “Yeah, you should be sorry because I am just--” 

“Yeah. You're great. You’re fine. Dandy, even, like you said. I get it. Anyway, nothing much to show for a personal life except a couple photos of him with arms around another man, identity unknown at this time. So maybe Kono's right with that lover thing. Spent most of his time at work trying to make the bar into something more than it was--never made much money. Lived a fairly unassuming, fairly lonely life."

Great, Danny thinks. Same age. Same crappy type of apartment. Spent most of his time working. He couldn't keep the sigh from escaping.

"I wasn’t comparing you to him, you do know that," Steve tells him as they exit the car and yeah, he gets that. Then Steve touches him, his warm broad hand squeezing his shoulder and immediately his brain shoots him a flashback of his dream from this morning. Like a still photograph, with Steve wrapped all over him--

It does amaze him, sometimes, how often he and Steve lay hands on one another and—

Jeeze. His brain is definitely trying to bust his balls today.

He shakes his head to clear it and follows Steve up to Jake Alanoa's house, standing with arms crossed as Steve knocks on the door.

The place is pretty run down, a small house with more junk piled around it than Danny's even owned.

"Nice landscaping," he scoffs, scanning the crap piled everywhere. Stacked, moldy boxes, a lamp minus bulb and shade. Beer cans. Part of a bike. A pile of doll heads--whatever that's about.

Is that an old toilet leaning against the side of the porch? He nods to it. "Seriously. Isn't that just a cliché?"

Steve peers through the window. "So dirty I can't see anything in there." He jiggles the door handle, locked. "Okay, Danny, stand back--"

A sharp bang at the rear of the house saves him from having to yell at Steve about police protocol—again—and then they’re both sprinting to the back yard just in time to get a glimpse of the man who just bolted from the house as he slips out of view.

Steve is already racing off after him, and Danny starts after as well, turning back at the last second and heading again toward the front of the house because he just knows the guy has doubled back and will be heading that way.

Sure enough, here comes the runner, who barrels into Danny as they both hit the corner at the same time and how did he not see this coming?

Danny twists on impact, half going down and grabbing the nearest thing at hand, slamming it into the guy just as the rest of his leg gives out.

He hisses from between gritted teeth, curling up and writhing and holy shit he's done some damage because his knee is just a massive explosion of pain. Pretty sure his long-standing puke free years are about to be broken, and McGarrett's just shown up with some kind of weird-ass expression drawing down and looking very much like he's wanting to kill the guy over there while also trying to lay on hands of comfort over here but not quite sure how or where or who to go to--

And as much as he'd love Steve's hands on him, he can't even begin to deal with any of that right now, so just groans out, "Fuck me," as he tries really hard not to vomit.

**

Danny is wheeled out of the room just in time to hear: "And then Danny took him out with a toilet seat.”

"Danny!" Kono comes bounding over. "Are you okay?"

Chin's frowning at him. "You're looking a little pale there, brah."

"Looks like he's feeling better, though, right, Danny? Painkillers starting to kick in?" Steve is saying, asking, talking to him all the while his hand rests right there, on his shoulder, all heavy and warm and seeping its way right down into his flesh--

A voice floats out behind him, the doctor following in its wake and he's giving instructions and Danny is trying his best to follow along. "One more time and it's going to be surgery on that knee, detective. No running, no jumping. Nothing strenuous." The doctor continues explaining things, and Danny watches him shove two prescription papers not into his hands, but into Steve's. He's hardly paying attention. "Use the cane. Read the instructions for applying ice and heat. Fill these, take as needed. I expect you to follow up with the orthopedist as well."

"Yeah, okay," Danny breathes, waving a hand and sighing, nodding, not listening, instead, doing his best to ignore the fact Steve is touching him again. Trying his best to focus as much as he's trying not to say something completely stupid while he lets Steve help him out of the emergency room and into the car. He feels like he’s drifting.

He has no idea where Chin and Kono got off to.

"The office," Steve says out of the blue, and, "It's not."

"Huh?"

"Floating away like a balloon. Your head. It's not."

"Huh?" Then there's warmth there behind his neck, squeezing and touching and squeezing and petting and squeezing and rubbing--

"It's still connected to your neck here," Steve is continuing, "in case you were still wondering."

"Huh?"

"And petting? Really? Because I thought it was more like a good massage that--"

He has no idea what Steve is talking about, can barely hear him and is feeling a whole lot more fuzz building around his edges while he tries to commit to memory the feel of Steve’s hands burning their way to forever on his body.

**

He sets his cane against the stool next to him, elbows leaning on the bar while he watches the bartender draw him a beer.

From the early morning rude awakening of interrupted, unsuccessful orgasm, to the right now of watching the overly lipsticked pucker on the not-as-young-as-she-clearly-hoped-everyone-thought-her-to-be waitress standing just over there in the corner and eyeing him as though he is sure to be a lousy tipper--

All the hours making up the in-between of his day play through his head like a truly bad made-for-TV movie.

His knee is killing him in the worst way, but he doesn't care. He's purposely sworn off taking any more painkillers until tomorrow because damn if he isn't going to have a drink--maybe two, perhaps three--and wants to be able to fully feel the deadening of his brain cells.

Feel each and every one, assuming there are even that many still alive and synapse-ing their way to logical thought after this nightmare of a day.

After the nightmare of a few hours ago and the comments he may have accidentally, stupidly said to Steve. Pretty sure he did say to Steve--oh my fucking god shoot me now--because it only takes a half second to remember the gist of what he spewed forth to Steve as Steve had helped him into his pathetic apartment and onto his even more pathetic pull-out sofabed.

And in thinking on it all now, just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, the exact words, ‘suck your brains out though your dick' flash inside his head.

He didn't really say that, did he?

He has no idea if Steve said anything in return. Can barely remember anything except waking up after his drug-induced nap to the slow, then explosive realization that he may have actually sworn that plus his complete and undying love to Steve.

Steve, who he's pretty sure just half smiled with that indulgent face of his before tearing out of there with nothing but words about paperwork and processing and evidence still to collect remaining behind in his wake.

He read the text that Kono sent him explaining that the guy who caused the blowout of his knee (and subsequent complete and utter drug-induced humiliation) did, in fact, kill his boss/lover and stupidly try to disguise the crime as a robbery. Took all of twenty seconds to figure it out given the bloody clothes discovered in the guy's laundry hamper, which was next to a small arsenal of grenades, for God's sake.

Danny hates stupidity--especially stupidity that ends in injury.

As in his knee.

As in his pride. His sanity.

He told Steve McGarrett that he loved him. Or loved his hands, anyway, especially when they showed up on parts of his body--all parts--as had happened just that morning. In his dream. When he hadn't gotten the chance to come because of his neighbor’s freaky fuck-fest.

He'd told him that, too. All of it.

Then apparently offered to blow him. 

He thinks.

So, yeah. Alcohol--the proverbial drowning out of sorrows caused by sheer stupidity. That was all he could think of as he'd awakened, then slowly stumbled the less than quarter mile to plant himself at the neighborhood bar.

Within walking distance of his apartment, even hobbling on a cane, he'd occasioned the small place known as Skinny Akela's a few times. Not often enough to know anyone by name, but enough to know the owner, Akela, wasn't anything close to what could be called skinny.

Getting there, he took a seat at the bar. Got a beer. Got another.

God, if McGarrett doesn’t send him into apoplexy at times. 

Sends a twinge of heat though his groin just thinking about him, too, which just proves that one beer isn't going to make that--or thoughts of Steve--go away.

Two beers won't even dull the ache, either, apparently.

He's drawn to the guy. Attracted. Physically attracted.

Completely. Utterly.

Wholly--

Fucked, is what he is, and he knows it. 

Worse, is pretty sure Steve now knows it, too, and he doesn't know what to do about that. Doesn't want to think on that, which then has him staring wistfully at the now empty shot glass in his hand and thinking maybe the two beers and shot of Jack aren't nearly enough after all. Not by half.

He waves the empty beer mug, signaling the bartender. "Uno mas, amigo."

"Sure thing, brah," the guy replies with a half grin and quicker beer and Danny swallows half of it down all the while thinking how grateful he is the guy didn't feel the need to call him _haole_.

Late. Eleven-fifty and he really ought to just be heading home soon.

Then again--

The place isn't crowded, just the bartender and a few old local cronies laughing loudly at the other end of the bar. Not a big crowd for a Friday, which suits him just fine.

A large-sized couple seated at a table near the door are seemingly engaged in some sort of heated argument, him with a few empty shot glasses in front of him, her with an untouched pink and frothy drink and a straw she keeps stirring.

The waitress is keeping her distance from everyone as she leans against the wall by the door, picking at her nail polish and looking completely bored.

He watches the couple for a long beat, some feeling telling him a break up is about to happen, then turns back to his beer and contemplates another as his mind drifts back to Steve.

Of course.

Always back to Steve.

Steve. His boss, Steve. Straight Steve.

Steve who just walked into the bar, Steve. Here.

Steve.

What the hell?

What is he doing here?

"Hey," he calls to him, turning, greeting, trying for casual. Maybe offering a half-smile, totally cool. Yeah, cool. Looking at the man in his tight deep navy blue t-shirt all muscle-y and tattoo-y. Not staring at those arms. Those eyes. God. Not staring. Not.

"Thought maybe this is where you’d gone," Steve tells him as he shifts his way through empty tables and chairs toward him.

Clearly not registering the waitress who is following him with eyes and body right on up next to him at the bar.

"Can I get you something? Anything?" she's asking. No, she's offering. Clearly. 

Steve glances at her. "No, I'm good at the bar. I'm with him." He points to Danny, waving her off.

"Figures," she mutters and it's not hard to miss the glare of death she shoots at Danny.

"Did something happen? We have a case?" he directs toward Steve, biting the bullet and all the while not wanting to look at him because he can feel color filling his face. This day has been shit in the gutter since before he even woke up, so why figure it's going to turn any better now? "Why you lookin' for me?"

Steve is offering up his own sharp expression. "Yeah, something happened. I left you in bed, asleep. You're supposed to be there now. At your place, you know. Sleeping. Resting." He glances pointedly to the cane and then his knee. "Following doctor's orders."

Danny ignores him in favor of a long pull on his beer. "Okay, well, apparently I wanted a beer instead. Because, look. A beer."

Glaring. Steve is now actually glaring at him. "You're on meds."

He drains a bit more out of the mug. "Ah, correction. Was. I was on meds. Haven't started any of them since what they gave me at the hospital wore off." He silences Steve with a pointed finger. "I will, though. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I am right back on 'em."

Steve's hand is then wrapping around Danny's forearm and damn it, the man has to stop doing that--stop touching him--because even that much contact has incited his dick to start its own little riot by jumping up and down inside his pants, which. Just. Stop.

"You need to be off your feet, Danny. Your knee."

"Yeah, okay. See--" He pulls his arm from Steve's grasp and wraps the hand it's attached to back around his beer. "You. I had not realized you were really my mother in disguise," he peers suspiciously at Steve, reaching out to poke at his arm. "Wait, are you my mother?" and okay, so Steve's now shaking his head and giving him one of those intense, concerned, half-amused looks with those eyes--

Again, those damn eyes.

A quick turn away to save his soul, and what the hell is his hand doing still settled there on Steve's arm? He pulls it away, back to concentrating on peeling away the label from his beer. "I appreciate the concern, Steve. I do. Really. Just thought I'd get a beer. That's it. That's all. All done. Case closed. Finito."

There's a long silence then, and he's all too aware of Steve sitting there nursing his own beer that he never even noticed the bartender bring over to him.

"Just, tell me you didn't walk over here."

Danny nods and he's definitely feeling those beers now. His head's flying a little high. "Okay." He can sense Steve looking at him.

"Okay, you didn't walk over here?"

"Okay, I'll tell you I didn't if it makes you happy. Of course, how the hell you think I got here without walking is a mystery only you can share. You do have my car."

"God, Danny. Your knee isn't up to--"

"Okay. You can stop right now. I'm fine. My knee is--okay, maybe not fine, necessarily, but it's not so bad I couldn’t make my way here." He holds up the cane. "I have this, my trusty steed, and--and you, apparently. I now have you to give me a ride back. So--everything's good. Right? All good. All fine. Now drink your beer and tell me you processed the whole shebang correctly and that fucker who took out my knee isn't going to walk away from murder on a technicality."

"Yeah," Steve says after a long pause. "Yeah, we got him."

"Good," he replies. Takes a long pull from his beer. "I’ll drink to that."

**

Amazing to him that what, a few beers and a shot--he thinks it was only the one—just one shot--

Okay. Starting again. A few beers, definitely. And the one shot. Probably just one. And Lord, he's having a hard time getting his key in the door. Well, the lock. The lock that's on the door, so technically the door.

The lock and the door. Either way, neither of them seems to be opening.

"Here, let me," a voice--Steve's voice--says at his back while a big hand comes around and tries to grab--

"I got it. I can do it," he tells him, pushing Steve’s hand away because he's got this. He can do it. He can-- "Well, it seems to be broken."

"Danny--"

There's a warmth on his back. And light pressure. "Is that your hand, Steven?"

Immediately the pressure is gone, and he turns slightly to tell him he doesn't mind it, really, and to go ahead, put it back. Steve has his arms crossed, though, and is leaning against the jamb with his jaw so tight it looks like he's about to break a molar.

"You know, I bet your dentist is making a mint off of--oh hey! I got it!"

The key turns and the door opens so quickly he almost hits the wall as he's suddenly stumbling forward.

Hands brace him, steadying him, pulling him back upright, and he groans as his knee all but screams out its own protest.

Steve gets him to the sofa, it still open and pretty much a tangled mess of sheets and blanket. And clothes, it looks like. There's a damp towel strewn across the bottom of the bed from his shower earlier. At least he doesn’t still smell like curry.

"Here." A hand shows up with a glass of water and two Advils. "Take these for now, you can start your meds in a few hours when the beer is out of your system."

"Huh," he says, taking the Advil, peering up at Steve who then shifts to sit next to him on the bed. After he moves the wet towel and clothes out of the way.

He's so close, Steve's knee is almost touching his, and Danny suddenly feels the heat of embarrassment start to travel up his face. He'd almost forgotten that he'd unloaded all those feelings from earlier. All those things he'd said, using words like sucking, blowing, licking. Now it's hard to forget and he doesn't know what to say.

Can’t quite look at the man.

So he looks at Steve's hand instead, as it rests there upon Steve’s thigh, tan and scarred in a few places. It looks strong and capable and smooth and, Jesus. Even the man's hands are pretty.

And then he hears, "Danny," and Steve is right there. In his space. In his face. Touching his jaw with those long fingers on that pretty hand.

"What, a seagull get my hair this time?" he tries to joke it off because there is no feasible explanation for what he thinks is about to happen.

The hand on his face stills, fingers lightly cupping his jaw, thumb stroking, and he's pretty sure his skin is melting. Steve is shaking his head. Chuckling. "No, your hair is--well, it's as it always is."

"Steve--"

"Danny," Steve counters, more breathing his name than saying it, and the fluttering in Danny's stomach is almost overriding the feel of the twitching in his pants.

He's going to kiss him. Steve is, and how knowing this is reducing him to fifteen-year-old girl status he can't even fathom.

"Danny, Danny," Steve breathes some more, and the sound of Steve's voice is like friction to his groin which is now just doing the happiest of salsas, and then he's closing in and Danny moves forward to meet him because this just is not happening but maybe it is and--

"Ow!"

"Steve--I'm--God. Sorry!" Somehow he fell forward. His own teeth are rattling and Steve has a hand over his lip and Jesus. He really is a fifteen year old girl.

"Okay, it's okay." Steve is moving again, and Danny closes his eyes this time, shifting, still not sure how any of this is--

"Ah, shit--shit--" because somehow he's twisted or knocked or jarred or something to his knee and it hurts, it hurts, Christ almighty, it hurts--

And Steve is right there and looking at him, hands hovering, and he has to close his eyes against the awkwardness of the past few minutes, and against the wretched pain shooting up and down his leg--

A hand is now resting lightly against his thigh, softly kneading and he's riding it out. "Okay, I'm okay," he says, pain slowly easing and then Steve is shifting--

"Come here," Steve tells him, helping him move slightly higher up on the bed until Danny is stretched all the way out flat on his back with Steve by his side.

"Steve, really--what?'' because this is the last thing he would have ever thought would happen, wishful thinking and unfinished dreams aside, this just can't be--

Steve's hands cup around his face, around his jaw, eyes staring in the same way Danny has always thought of doing to Steve.

Then Steve moves, and Danny feels the lightest feather touch of tongue sweep barely there over his lips.

His eyes close again as he breathes in Steve's scent.

There's no sound but their soft breaths, the rustle of bedclothes, and the loud creak of the wretched mattress springs as Steve shifts his legs.

Danny could stay like this forever, and part of him is still wondering if he's just that drunk or if he's dreaming again. Hears himself marveling aloud, "This is not happening. We can't be doing this."

"We are," Steve reassures him with a lick of soft tongue underneath an earlobe.

"But I don't think--"

"Good. Don't think."

Steve's tongue is now writing a thesis on his neck while a hand is playing with the buttons on his shirt, freeing each from it's little prison until he feels the play of air drift down the length of his chest. Then fingertips tickle through the hair there, settling over one now very peaked nipple.

When Steve's teeth hit it, well, Danny's pretty embarrassed by the much too high-pitched noise that explodes out of him. Could give next-door porn guy's boyfriend a run for his money with that kind of sound effect.

He can't seem to help questioning Steve, though, because to say this is all unexpected and out of the blue is an understatement by far. 

"Steve, seriously. How did--you don't--I mean, I wasn't--"

Steve pulls back then, looking down at him as he leans on an elbow. "I'm not deaf, Danny. And when you started telling me everything that you've been wanting, well, I'm not dead, either."

"But you never--"

"Never what? Never thought I'd have a chance with the once-married man who seems to always have an eye out for a pretty face? Never thought in my wildest dreams that you would share the same filthy thoughts about things we can do to one another?"

That floors him, and he again remembers all the shit that spilled forth when he was loopy on meds. He reaches up to let fingers slide softly across Steve's chin, beer and Jack and Advil dulling his sense of discomfort and letting himself just feel. "You have a pretty face."

Steve softly grins at that.

Which drives a spike of heat straight into his groin. Danny shifts, fingers tracing across Steve's lips. "You really want this?"

Steve studies him for a long beat. "Nah," he says. "You know what? Changed my mind."

They share an absolutely still moment wherein Danny feels the rush of blind panic as his heart races inside his chest and white noise fills his ears much the same way it does when he's about to climax--only this, this isn't like that at all--

And Jesus, wouldn't that be such the predictable end to this oh, so fucking crap-filled day.

Until he realizes that Steve hasn't moved an inch. Is just looking down at him with those eyes he has, that face he has and that grin he has that lets Danny know instantly that he's right where he wants to be.

The hand Steve has tucked and cupped around his ass kind of clues Danny in as well, but he's not mentioning that just in case Steve has some mind to move it away.

He kinda likes that hand nestled right where it is.

Danny feels his body relax, like he's been poured onto the mattress and left there to puddle forever. He brushes a finger down the line of Steve's nose, finger catching over his lips before his hand drops back to the mattress. 

"Steven, let me tell you something. You have no idea what kind of unbelievable crap has filled most of the hours of my day today."

"You forget I was there for most of it?"

Oh, right. "Then you do know.”

“I know.” 

“And you're still here now."

Steve is nodding. "I'm still here."

And Danny smiles big and goofy and stupid and his eyes are crinkling too much and he knows it. Can't help it because he’s had one too many beers and maybe one too many shots of Jack. "And you're going to kiss me."

Steve smiles. 

And he does.

End.


End file.
